


Plenilune

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demon AU, Eventual Smut, F/M, Loosely Connected Oneshots, Romance, They're Demons.... That's the Catch, exactly what it sounds like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-09-12 15:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16875459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: A werebeast, confined to the form of a man for one week each month. A succubus, bound by mortals but slave to none. The veil between worlds is at its thinnest in the early ages of man, when demons walk in the shadows and live by the light of the moon.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tryphena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tryphena/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prologue

He knows when she enters his forest.

How could he not? This is his territory, his domain… _his._ Nothing—man or beast, living or dead—escapes his notice, not here. The deer are his vassals, the stoats his infantrymen. The birds are his sentries, high in their wooden towers. Everything within its borders bows in allegiance as he lopes past; the rocks make way for his feet, and even the leaves whisper their secrets above his head. Nothing here is unknown, at least not to the one who presides over all.

And even if he could not rely on them… what of it? He’s hardly a mere beast. What lupine can expand to become all and nothing, everything at once, with little more than a ripple of magic? A shifting darkness in the underbrush, the unseen snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves on a windless evening: he is all of them, and more. Creeping tendrils of shadow, glowing eyes in the darkest copse, the hair-raising chill of something otherworldly. There are many ways to know _where_ he is, to know that he is _everywhere_.

The humans do not come here, if they are wise. There are unspoken laws, of course—even godforsaken lands are still subject to the whims of the Divinity. He may not hunt them until dusk; unless the sun sinks out of reach, they are out of grasp. However, tracking their movements through his forest is not forbidden to him, and he takes full advantage.

He watches them from his place, tangled between this world and another. Hidden in the veil, he cannot be seen, but his presence is felt nonetheless. They scurry over the moldering leaf-strewn footpaths of his realm, glancing in vain over their shoulders, knowing that they run on borrowed time. Their horses plunge in fright if he veers too close; like their owners they, too, are animals. Reliant on instinct, subject to panic.

Easy prey.

The forest breathes differently when she enters, though it is by no means unwelcome. The magic of this land, far older than either of them, knows that she is just as inhuman, just as untouchable. It also knows that she as much _his_ as anything else in these woods, more of her own volition than of his. She has claimed him and, by allowing herself to be claimed in return, has weaved herself into the fabric of his existence. The earth does not cringe from the step of her heel, the trees do not bind their branches to block her path. She is only lost when she wishes to be—which is more often than not, as she lets the forest envelop her wholeheartedly with every passing moon.

In a manner of speaking, they are the same; they are enough alike that the forest would not have rejected her, even if he had. Men have words for their ilk, in the thousand-thousand Babel tongues: _daeva, yaoguai, rakshasa_. In the tongue of the bordering village, they are _demon_.

What they are called matters little in the end. The religions they are associated with, the folktales they have become a part of—manmade concepts, with no real meaning in the fabric of the universe. Useless phrases, empty words, all spoken from untorn throats. The mortals know the laws of this place just as instinctively as he does. The paltry defenses they might create can only soothe them into false security.

They are _demon_ , but here the similarities stop. He is a werebeast, the unholy joining of angel and animal. He is a blight upon sacred ground, with the ability to take many forms. The easiest for him is a hellhound, a Gytrashian creature of shadow and sinew with glowing eyes—six of them, as his mate notes. But this is not the extent of his powers by any stretch; he can be many things, or nothing, or in-between. He can even take a man-shape, when the moon is full and the veil between worlds is at its thinnest.  

She, however, is purely the progeny of fallen angels. Small, supple, with gemstone eyes that reflect like and skin as pure as fallen snow. Her hair falls free over bared shoulders, unburdened by ornament. Like the others of her kind, twisted versions of Divine Image, she is riddled with what humans would call defects. Horns jut from her skull, leather wings span farther than the tips of her supple fingers. Even a tail that cuts with the intensity of a whip, curling through the air in slow rhythm with her heart.

But she is beautiful, even to a beast like himself. No more so than here, in his domain, where nature can wrap her in its changing moods. Rain catches the edges of her glistening lashes, snowflakes cling to her dark lips. She leaves his den with feathers and leaves tangles in her curls, catching some of his shadow on a pinkie nail to create a new dress for herself. Even bared beneath him, her skin glowing against the dark moss of his clearing; even above him, brighter than a star in the darkness. She cannot be a wolf’s shape, any more than he can be a bird, or a frog, or a trout.

But she _is_ beautiful, and she is his.

He saw her first in autumn, pale against the dying evening. He knew of the château, of the sprawling grounds that fringed his territory, but nothing of what lived within its walls. Human or demon, dead or undead—he cared not, so long as they did not enter into what was his. But her own hunt had carried her from the safety of her home, into the forest without a second thought as to where the unmarked boundaries lay.

Her prey was… _unfortunate_ enough to escape her grasp; it would have been far less painful for her to snuff out the frantically beating heart. The human was little sport, and by the time she arrived it was no more than a stain, marring a single loamy stretch of forest floor. That soul had been devoured in a single crunch, and no regrets. He’d barely turned from the resulting carnage, licking the last of the viscera from his broad chops, when he saw her watching from the shadows of the glen.

He was filled, and a sated belly meant room for whimsy. There was no need to waste meat on senseless gorging, and no emotion swayed his actions towards her. He could taste her curiosity on the air, along with the cloying, blood-soaked scent of adrenaline.

He approached her with an apathy, bordering on bemusement. He knew she was demon—a succubus, judging by the pheromones that clung to her small frame. Her fragrance was a miasma that soaked the glen in the ancient, most primal of mating tones; being tailored for human noses, it had no lasting effect on him. He could not recall the last time a demon encroached on his territory: only that he had slain it, and absorbed its power into himself before promptly dismissing the ordeal.

A _bold_ little demon, even as she instinctively backed against a tree, chin raised to seek his eyes. Even in his smallest shape, her horns barely tickled his jawbone; her wings flared unconsciously, a kitten puffing to a larger shape as she sized up the looming beast before her. Still, the soured tang of fear was absent from her scent, and she showed no signs of anger over the fate of her misbegotten prey.  

“Hello.” Her voice was a whisper, gaze steady as she looked down his muzzle. He could not speak to her in this form; he was only capable of man-speak at the full moon, when his form was confined to that shape for its duration. His answering huff blew the curls from her shoulders, and he heard the tree’s near-silent groan as her nails bit into its bark. Above them the leaves murmured, the ground thrumming beneath their feet.

She held power, great power, but she meant no harm. He perused her form idly, ears flicking as he listened to the magic gathering around them, attracted by the addition of a new power source. She would be a worthy hunt, with the power to best him—or she would put up a worthy fight, and he would savor the taste of her marrow. But his full stomach shied from the exhilaration of a chase, urging him to leave this ageless creature and seek the dark comfort of his den.

Lifting his head, he let himself expand to fill the glen, the night prickling as it washed over the jagged shadows that made his fur. He watched her still, gaging her reaction even as he relished the pleasure-pain of his stretching, rippling muscles. Sangria lips parted in a flash of white teeth and pink tongue, pupils dilating as her spine arched into the protesting wood of the elm.

He turned towards his den, breathing in the night chill and watching as the last rays of sun dipped beyond the horizon. He was unafraid to show her his back, listening to the rapid patter of her heart, hidden just beneath white mounds of ripe, tender flesh; his mouth watered, but only from the thought of past kills. He was not hungry, and so he would let this curious little succubus go free.

Glancing over his shoulder, he gathered his power before pushing it onto her in a solid wave of energy. Her eyes narrowed as it washed over her, stirring the leaves over her head into a fluttering gale before dispersing across the moors. It held no spoken words, but was instead filled with the unwavering presence that commanded both beast and birds. She, too, would have no trouble in deciphering his order. _Leave._

“Wait!” She broke from the tree, gliding into the waxing moonlight and pausing just beyond reach. “Wait,” she again implored, one arm stretched as if to grab a handful of his fur. Her breath came in a shallow pant, chest heaving against the lace hem of her gown. He watched, waiting for the first attack—it never came. “Don’t go.”

Had he a man’s form, he might have laughed at the thought of being commanded in his own domain. Instead he growled, the sound rumbling like thunder through the hills and sending a shiver down every villager’s spine as they hurriedly locked their shutters against his powerful warning.

Even she trembled, though for a different reason entirely. Excitement cut through her perfume of sex and magic, pale cheeks flushing a soft, sweet rose that seemed almost too innocent for a demon. He preened, satisfied that she at least recognized him for what he truly was. His strength aroused her, but that was not an uncommon trait amongst demons; he disregarded it almost immediately. Her place was not here. She was not his, nor he hers.

He left her in the glen, trusting her to find her own way back to the place from whence she came. There would be other prey for her, other willing males desperate for a fuck, desperate enough to call her to their bedsides no matter what the price. Life would go on as before, and within three moons he would forget that he’d ever spared the life of a beautiful little succubus one autumn evening.

Perhaps her obedience was a red thread, the first tie connecting their souls. She obeyed his demand like anything else within the forest, cementing some small part of herself as _his_ , even without their knowledge. Or perhaps it was that she did what no demon before had in the long, long expanse of his memory: she returned, treading the same ground twice. Or, like many other things in the large, unexplainable world of gods and men, they were drawn together by the same powers that gave them life and purpose.

Did it really matter, the _why_ of it? Why he had spared her, why she had come back, why they seemed destined in some way? It was beyond the understanding of his bestial mind; in any case there was no need to ruminate over needless thoughts, when so many better opportunities presented themselves each day.

He was content in knowing that she was his, he was hers, and they were meant to be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on demon!au by @evebelduke on twitter; check out the art for it there, it's hella sweet!
> 
> Anyway i'm kind of proud that my 100th fanfiction is also the closest thing I'll ever get to actual furry content. It's mostly really loosely connected oneshots with no real story line other than "demon", so... I mean? Demon, what more can I say.


	2. I.- Hunter's Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEXWRTEbj1I

_What is love?_

It’s been said that his kind cannot love, or at the very least are incapable of understanding love as an emotion. In a sense that may be true: he cannot comprehend the depths of what others refer to as _amour._ Is it a constant, then, that one must always understand emotion in order to experience it? He cannot understand the vastness of the mortal plane, and yet he exists within, and as part, of its dominion. Perhaps it’s not the same….

But what _is_ love? Love, in the capital sense, a proper noun. Love which, in its own way, is synonymous with heart. Heartwarming, Heartful, Heartening, Heartsease.

Heartbreak _._

If Love indeed resides within the heart… well, that is untrue. Or, rather, if it were true, one might naturally deduce that Love is easily lost. After all, what is a heart? A muscle, capable of pumping—on average—a trivial two thousand gallons of blood through the arterial system per day. A heart weighs one pound—again, on average—and can continue beating once severed from the body.

To rip a heart from its cavity, to watch it steam in the cold, dank air… to sever life at the source is so easily done. It’s one of the few surefire ways to kill his kind; even the humans have surmised _that_ much. Cut out a heart, burn it, scatter the ashes at a crossroads and bury the rest beneath a saint’s grave. Overkill, maybe, but effective.

A heart is persevering, however: it will continue to pump steadily despite being exposed to the elements. He watches one now, glistening in the faint light burning low from the candles suspended in his laboratory. The experiment itself has long stopped being interesting; he might have thought it dead, if the soul wasn’t still feebly clinging to the immobile form. He ignores the faintly shimmering mist for a moment, focused instead on the steadily pulsing muscle. Everything in its due time….

The average heart is the same size as a human’s fist. His hands are much longer than a human’s, and far more graceful at that. The breadth of his palms are long and thin, his fingers like slender reeds; they seem built to curl delicately beneath the ribs, gently teasing the heart out from its sacred resting place. It quivers in his open palm, a frightened sparrow with the soul coiled tightly, protectively, around its mass.

One quick snap is more than enough.

He watches with interest as the bonds break, freeing the organ entirely. It continues to move, unaware that its commission is at an end. Engrossed in the heart, he almost—almost—forgets to snag the soul with his free hand as it rushes upward with a faint death rattle. It sits in the cage of his fingers, fluttering and helpless, as he watches the heart slow… slower… and finally cease.

“Fascinating,” he breathes, tilting the heart to see it better in the light. His breath releases in a low sigh, lungs aching in relief as he finally turns his attention to the experiment’s soul. It wouldn’t do to waste one, not when his work is incomplete. Humans, in the end, are much more serviceable than his own kind. All their parts are harvestable, from the eyes to the toenails and everything in-between. Ligaments, tendons, even intestines are useful. But the soul, the seat of thought… that is his chief interest.

It would be well worth the centuries of research if he can, in the end, master the study of souls. His end goal is to understand them completely as a harvestable essence, one that can be bottled and used as needed. Or—even more exciting—one that can be changed into something different, perhaps even something _new_. If he could find the spark of being… if he could create a soul—well, there would certainly be no end to the possibilities _there_.

Casting his eyes around for a jar, he finds to his chagrin that his supply is used up. To date, every soul he’s tried to bottle has shattered its confines and attempted escape. Now there’s only jagged shards of magic-tempered glass, lying scattered around the low stone barriers that separate his laboratory from the cistern’s watery depths.            

Turning in a slow circle, he can’t help but make a face at his surroundings. Once again he’s allowed his work to engulf him, and now stains are dried into the grout beneath his boots, the stone walls, and—he closes his eyes pointedly, turning away from the table. The sight alone is enough to make him retch. His tools are so _askew_.

“It’s no wonder I’ve barely made headway.” It’s beneath him to grumble, but he can’t help it. Anyone, _anyone_ as annoyed as he feels now would have the right to complain. “How am I supposed to work in these conditions?!” He toys with the soul in his hands, weaving it through his fingers before letting it escape, only to drag it back at the last moment. “I must order someone down here to clean up immediately.”

“What a waste…” Again he regards the soul, watching as it desperately tries to flee. Tiring of the pathetic display, he devours it with another long suffering sigh. Immediately, the sour bite of terror tightens his jaw, the hair raising on his neck as a shudder works its way down his spine. “Disgusting.” How anyone can enjoy the acrid taste of a terrorized soul, he’ll never know. Any decent flavor is lost beneath such bitterness.

The lifeless face draws his attention; bending low over the workbench, he examines the eagle spread figure with a curious, detached air. Decay is already setting in, a pale film covering the eyes while stagnant blood settles in the veins, pooling lethargically in the open cavity. His sensitive nose can already detect the first stench of rot.

“Humans are made,” he states both to himself and the gaping visage beneath him, “in the image of God. A perfect creation, and yet so… fragile. All it takes is one malfunction, one vital organ’s failure, and the entire structure is useless.” He separates the valves, peering into the heart with a frown. “Rather inefficient overall, I’d say.”

“Are we waxing philosophical tonight?” The intrusion is enough to pull him from his thoughts, chin tilting habitually to find the figure he knows will be hovering somewhere in the shadows. He finally spies her near the cistern’s vaulted ceiling, her broad smile glinting wetly in the candlelight. It’s impossible not to mirror it, the heart falling, forgotten, to land with a sickening _plop_ near his boots.

“Rosalind.” He motions for her to join him, feeling the tempting caress of her power as she glides gracefully astride her weapon in lazy circles towards the laboratory floor.

Steeling himself for the inevitable, he takes a single sharp breath before yanking the tinted goggles from his face. The dim room is suddenly awash with light, the candles like miniature suns; their watery reflections only harshen the glare. The influx is a knife to his temples, eyes screwing shut against the pain as it diminishes to a low throb seated behind his sockets. It takes only a few seconds for his pupils to adjust, the world sharpening back into focus; still, it’s more than enough time for her to reach him.

She hovers at eye level, discontented with solid ground while he looms over her. She’s no small woman, but even the added height her horns offer is barely enough to clear his lower ribs. He is tall and thin, with bones that can compress to almost seven feet and separate to just shy of ten. It’s perfect for reaching the top of tall shelves, seeing over an inconvenient wall… or stalking his prey. Like all upper-class demons, the startling amount of humanity in his features make his inhumanity all the more terrifying.

“Welcome home.” He studies her lithe form from top to bottom and back, looking for any sign of injury from her revelry. She leans on the levitating weapon, one slipper-clad foot balancing delicately on the bloodstained heel of the axe and her arms folded demurely over the base of its handle. The dark ruffles of her evening gown are unmarred, blending seamlessly into the gloom that surrounds them both. A skull brooch—a gift from their last anniversary—gleams at the base of her throat. Her curling horns are polished and her hair is drawn back into a serviceable bun, leaving only two strands to frame long, elegant ears. “You look radiant, my dear. A victory?”

“Was there any doubt?” Her sinuous tail twists idly through the air, the heart-shaped tip whistling with every flick. A modest blush paints her cheeks at his compliment, but even that only adds to the luscious perfection of her beauty. It isn’t wrong to say that she is radiant; her very nature makes her so. A succubus: living proof of the first deadly sin, sexuality incarnate.

She is built from the cells out to tantalize and titillate, tricking overeager mortals into feeding her voracious appetite. War is only a hobby, a game to pass boring afternoons; battlefields are her chessboard. Her true bread and butter is nothing more than adrenaline-soaked lust, and she excels at the art of seduction. Even now her wings are drawn coyly around her curves, the rise of her bust on display as she leans over her weapon with a patient, pleading expression.

Indulging her unspoken wish, he straightens and hesitantly opens his arms. She launches herself at him, the collision forcing him to take a step back, his boots against the low wall. The axe is abandoned as her arms wind around his neck, squeezing tightly; it crashes to the ground in a clattering echo that belies its true weight. The harsh clamor rings heavily in his ears even as her palms press against them to muffle the sound.

“Come with me,” she croons, nuzzling against the long column of his neck with a purr. He has no choice but to tilt his chin, keeping the sharp tips of her horns as far as possible from his eyes. She takes advantage of the opportunity it presents, tightening her grip with a tempting smile. “The moon is almost full,” she whispers, breath hot against his ear.

“Ahh.” He could try to disengage her, but it’s more work than it’s worth. Besides, the warmth of her bared skin is a welcome change from the cistern’s damp air. “I was wondering what the matter might be,” he adds, tracing the angled curve of her spine with his fingertips. “There’s not much that will draw you this far belowground.”

“And even less that will draw _you_ above it.” She smooths the lapels of his coat with both hands, sighing mournfully. “Have you already grown so tired of me, after only 500 years? Surely your little experiments aren’t more interesting than your wife.” She’s only teasing, of course. They’re pair-bonded for eternity; he will never tire of her, nor she him. Still, the question makes him pause.

His experiments.

In the corner of his eye, glass shards twinkle in the candlelight. The frustration of constant failure gnaws at his innards, turning his gaze from her expectant face as he regards the disorderly lab. What is the key? What is he doing wrong?

It’s not the glass itself: at least, it doesn’t seem to be. He’s tested it extensively already, and there is nothing faulty with the formula. It won’t buckle under pressure, or in a vacuum. No weapon is powerful enough to even chip the surface. It can withstand both the blazing heat and burning ice of Hell’s deepest reaches, and yet—fruitless effort!  

_What can be done?_ he thinks, jaw clenching. _What is a soul made of, that it can shatter such toughened confines so easily? And yet it exists for decades, even up to—no, even **beyond** a century—and in such a frail mortal body? How does one begin to measure the qualities of such a—_

“Newton.” Her tail wraps tightly around his upper thigh, squeezing when he doesn’t answer immediately. The sudden pain is enough to break him from his thoughts with a gasp. “Where is your mind? You’ve not listened to a thing I’ve said,” she scolds, eyes narrowing.

“I’m listening.” It’s a contradiction, but not an outright lie. He was listening… just not enough to understand anything she said in the interim. He reaches down to loosen the coils from his leg, wary of losing blood flow to the limb. Relenting her punishing grasp, she instead winds her tail up his arm in a gesture that is as much affectionate as it is possessive.

“Poor man,” she sighs, nails separating his ponytail into long strands. “Such hard work, without any breaks…” Her wings curl around their bodies as she rests her cheek against his shoulder, toying idly with the lace at his throat. “It can’t be good for your health.”

Her scent fills his nose, at once comforting and familiar. The pheromones her race exudes are tailored for human senses, not demons; it’s a potent mixture designed to work them into a frenzy of lust that’s ripe for feasting. While it technically has no real effect on him, the fragrance is nonetheless pleasant and never fails to lull him into a relaxed, nearly soporific state.

“This is crucial work,” he reminds her, fighting back a yawn as he falls further into the snare of her aroma. His chin finds a safe spot to rest between her horns, eyelids growing heavy. “It’s very important for our plan. Even if it’s impossible to unlock the secrets of life, it would nonetheless be beneficial to grow a healthy backstock before time… time to….” He leans unconsciously against her, shoulders slumping before jerking awake with a start. “Stop that,” he snaps, rubbing beneath his eyes with both thumbs.

“I’m not doing anything,” she protests, even as she rubs her cheek furtively against his coat. “And besides, our plan won’t even reach the halfway point for another 2,000 years or so. Even you can’t change that.” She says no more, but there is no need to. He can see his own thoughts mirrored in her gaze.

There is danger in speaking too loudly, even alone in the dark. The shadows have eyes, the walls have ears; even the most loyal servant can be bought. And the price of discovery, of failure, is too high to pay. The High Court’s judgement is not dealt in death sentences: the opportunity to die together is a sweet release many pair-bonds would give their life savings for.

No, their punishment would be much worse, something fitting for those who would dare commit the highest treason: eternal separation. Even the thought is too torturous to bear. When they die, _if_ they die, never again with they be faced with the fear of parting; their souls will be united forever. For one to be killed, the other forced into eternal existence… it’s been said that the poor fools often go mad.

“What’s the rush?” she continues softly, as if the thought never crossed their minds. “We’ve all the time in the world, and then some. It’ll be awhile yet before we can even think of telling—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t want to bring _her_ into the equation yet, even by name. Names are powerful in their own right, and her safety is their top priority for a number of reasons. “Don’t leave for tomorrow what can be done today,” he answers instead, spouting the old adage with a bitter smile. “Besides, I enjoy my—what did you call them?—my _little experiments._ I believe you would find them fascinating yourself, if you’d stop by to observe. They can be… quite the interesting experience.”   

“But wouldn’t it be more interesting to play with _me_ instead?” She leans back with a smirk, gaging his reaction with a practiced eye. “Don’t you think?” He is used to her teasing but the question still takes him by surprise, opening his mind to a darker avenue of thought.

“You would volunteer yourself?” His knuckles brush the smooth surface of her cheek, finding the bone and following it to her jaw. Expecting a kiss, she offers no resistance when he tips her chin back; she flushes, lashes fluttering closed as her lips part in anticipation. “Knowing what I do here, you would willingly do that?” he murmurs, only half-aware of the words. He is nowhere near as salacious as she, but neither is he blind. Only a eunuch could resist this sight.

It’s easy to find the right carotid, blood pulsing steadily beneath his fingers. He traces it down her neck, to the hollow of her throat and lower still to the subclavian artery that fringes her collarbone. She shivers, pressing into his touch as her heartbeat patters wildly under his thumb.

His mouth waters for something he cannot, _will not_ have. Every demon, from the highest echelon to the lowliest insectoid, is familiar with the darker instincts of their kind. It is a mark of the higher class to overcome the mindlessness of bloodlust, to hunt for sport instead of an easy meal. He is gentry, far above the baseless animals crawling the lower castes.

And yet temptation truly is a curse.

“Do you even realize what you ask?” An agreeable, enthusiastic test subject? What a difference that would make! No burdensome weeping, no fighting restraints; no longer would he have to listen to gut-wrenching screams, loud enough to make his stomach clench from memory. Would a willing participant change the outcome of his tests? Would a complacent soul shatter its tempered glass cage?

And for that person to be his own Rosalind, someone he feels more than apathy towards? Pressing her supple body onto the bench, her flawless wrists bruised by the unrelenting leather straps…. There would, he concludes, be something decidedly psychosexual about the experience. She would certainly make it so, if he didn’t feel that way from the beginning.

To join science and sex, defiling his clinical procedures with the baser instincts so near and dear to the Erotic Circle—his mind rails against the thought, even as his heart quickens in response. He knows her curves, the planes of her body, as well as any husband might know his wife; what would it be like to discover _more_ , to know her just as thoroughly from the inside as the out?

There is, of course, the matter of her comfort. There are things he could do, certain spells to perform that would take away any pain. It would be time wasted for lesser creatures, and they never last long enough to be much more than minor annoyances. But for her, he would be much more willing to make the effort. No, no… it would not do to bring her pain. But for even a   _glimpse_ —

“Newton, darling—” Both of her hands cover his, her breath coming in soft gasps as her heart thunders, seemingly ready to leap into his waiting palm. If she were a human, he would attribute it to shock, or fear. Her reaction is natural, a direct result of his unchecked power. The room is alive with energy, candles extinguished by an unseen storm billowing over the waters, opaque mist readied for his command.

With a violent effort he pushes down the feral power, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. His fingers splay beneath hers, soaking in the feeling of her bare skin as he calms back to his usual stoic demeanor. Her answering purr is soothing, vibrating beneath his palm as his heartbeat slows. It would not do to lose control now, not so close to the full moon. He’s still hungry, famished enough to leap even at what he’s most fond of. It didn’t matter if they were well matched in skill as well as power; one misguided swing of her axe, or a single unchecked shadow was all it could take. If either of them accidentally ripped out the other’s heart….

Is this love, then? He is hungry, she is a potential meal. Is love what stops him from rending her flesh? She’s a mature demon with a strong pull of the occult; her soul would be a delicacy. The deep power within him yearns to taste it, to gorge himself and absorb her essence into the fabric of his being. If he does not love, then why bother to resist? Why not eat? Was it his culture that stopped him? His upbringing? Pride in his self-restraint? Or was it merely whimsy?

And why, furthermore, did she not eat _him_? The carnal delights of the battlefield aren’t enough to sate her appetite. She must feel the same desires, the forbidden _want_. He knew she did; how often had she remarked, lying tangled with him in the dark, that his soul must look beautiful? How she wished to one day cup it in her palms, if only to admire the colors dancing over its misty surface?

Of course they would never act on such desires, but… _why_ wouldn’t they? Was it love that kept each from devouring the other? It wasn’t unheard of for demons to eat their pair-bond in some sickening form of debasement, unable to control the urges to possess entirely. But everyone knew that they were unhinged monsters by that point, shadows of their former selves no longer capable of higher thinking. What was the difference? What had to change, for someone to so utterly ruin themselves?

Was that love, then? That was hard to say. He, a man of science, did not like to think of emotion being the difference between a madman and a civilized being. After all, even the lower castes of demons could couple, reproduce, and not have any desire to devour their mates. Some of them weren’t capable of speech, much less intelligent thought.

Did love matter, in that case? Lower demons mate always for children, sometimes to combine territories and sometimes to form new packs. Higher demons choose pair-bonds for companionship, children being rarer amongst those who lived for untold centuries. Is love a factor?

He thinks briefly to his earliest memory of Rosalind. Memories, for him, often rely more on sensory input than emotion, but he can sometimes recall more if he tries. He hadn’t wanted to attend the debutante ball, but his mother had always insisted on his being sociable at least once every thousand years.

The glaring chandeliers, the pressing heat of the overcrowded ballroom, the stiffness of his new frock coat… he’d suffered profoundly from sensory overload, but it had been worth the pain to meet her, the young debutante he’d one day take as a spouse. His fingers twitch in memory of the extensive brocade of her ballgown, pale against the deep red of her excitedly fluttering wings. Her horns hadn’t been fully formed, two little cones jutting from her curled hair; he could still recall his surprise upon finding them adorable. From the moment she’d boldly glided over to introduce herself, they’d been inseparable.

But was that love?

“In that case… I would devour you.” The words fall from his lips without warning, but they ring of truth. He’s not sure why he feels the need to say them, only that it’s important for her to know. To accept her offer would be to give up the very thing that made him _him_ ; he would become another monstrosity for the High Court to exterminate. Uncaged, depraved, no better than a beast. “Body and soul.”

“Yes. I know.” Her answer is breathless, without a hint of regret. It’s an unexpected answer, one that has him blinking down at her in shock. She lowers her head, hands tightening into fists on his chest; only the empty sockets of her brooch meet his questioning eyes. The sudden change startles him into speech.

“You fear.” He wants it to be a question, but he knows her too well to doubt. There are few things in life that make her this way. Fear—or nerves—is one of them.

“I don’t fear you,” she replies quickly, the words flavored with both pride and comfort. He didn’t expect as much, but makes no answer as she searches for the words. The jovial mockery is missing from her pale features. “But I’m not sure if I would stop you. If I would even try.” Her tone is calm, pragmatic, but he can feel the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. “I’m afraid that… that I would want it too much to try.”

“Why?” _Why is it that you fear?_ he means, but for once she doesn’t guess it easily. There is nothing more upsetting for a demon than to be unsure of oneself; even this minor inner struggle has already put a rift in their bond.

“Why?” she repeats, blinking up at him solemnly. “I—” She falls silent, her hands sliding to cup his jaw on both sides. She draws him down until their foreheads meet, inhaling slowly. “Because it is the most precious thing I possess. What greater gift could I offer, then that of my own soul?”

He pulls away, their noses brushing as she tries to follow; his hands stop her, holding her by the shoulders as he searches her face. Is this the love that he seeks? Would he even recognize it in her features? Something deep within him aches, yearning for an answer he’s not even sure he can find.

“Would you not?” she asks in turn, her hands falling from his cheeks. He hesitates, unsure of how to answer. One part of him says yes, without question. If she asked it of him, he’d rip his own heart out and offer it to her with his dying breath. But the other refuses, selfishly hoarding his lifeforce. In a real scenario, which side would win? It’s only when her mouth purses in a doubtful frown that he answers, grabbing both hands and holding them tight in his own.

“Of course, wholeheartedly.” It _sounds_ right, but…. He swallows, suddenly overcome with confusion. Why did he even bother asking something so foolishly human? Does her own self-doubt leech into him through their bond, or is it entirely his own? He can’t tell, which only worries him further. They’re a pair, they should already know the answer to these frivolous questions. “But it’s of no great importance,” he says quickly, seeing that she is still clouded by uncertainty. “It would never happen anyway. We shouldn’t speak so idly of things that are forbidden by nature. It only wastes time.”

“Newton.”

“You’re right, my dear.” Still struggling, he looks around at the chaos in his normally orderly workspace and winces. “I’ve been down here far too long.” It’s astonishing that they’ve even been able to have a coherent conversation down here, in the mucky, filthy mess. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to be outside, away from it all. The feeling wells inside him, wrenching at his lungs until he’s breathless, anxious, practically sick with revulsion.

“ _Newton_.” She grabs his hand in both of hers, nails catching on the dark leather glove as she drags him physically back towards the lab. His resulting stumble gives her more than enough time to capture his other hand, pressing them demandingly to her waist.

“Rosalind, please.” As much as he enjoys her curves, he’s no longer in a state to oblige. “Come, let us go.”

“No. Wait.” Before he can speak another word, her body is pressed against his. “Devour me,” she orders, yet her face is a picture of submission. “Now. Tonight.”

“What?” He wonders—hopes—that it might be one of little jokes. She does so love to tease…. He’d be inclined to think so, if not so caught off-guard by the way she clings to his coat, her expression imploring even as her voice hardens.

“I’m serious.” There’s no mistaking that growl, even when the following command is more of a plea. “Bite me.”

“Do you hear yourself!?” The cold fire in her eyes burns away any lingering doubt. She _is_ serious, and he has no choice but to match it with his own firm refusal. “I can’t and I won’t _._ I like your soul very much where it is, thank you.”

“A little bite won’t hurt,” she protests, letting her head fall back. “It’s been so long, too long….”  His mouth waters at the sight of her exposed neck, long and slender, but he simply _cannot_. There’s too much danger, especially after their conversation, _especially_ when he’s this ravenous.

“I’ve only just eaten,” he excuses, pulling his hands away. He adjusts his cuffs, willing himself to calm enough that when he speaks again, it is in a collected, rational manner. “But… later, perhaps.” Higher demon or not, he’s still a man of temptation, and she a temptress. And when the apple has been offered…. “Yes, later,” he confirms, both to her and himself. A reward for his diligent work: permission to loosen his highbred morals and indulge.

“You’re no fun,” she pouts, wings drooping. Slight as the gesture may be, it’s still enough to bring a rather conceited smile to his face. _My dear little wife, so impatient._

“You requested a walk and I intend to give you one, as soon as I’m dressed for the occasion.” He offers his arm, cocking his head when she sighs before accepting it. “Besides,” he adds consolingly, the hint of a smile still on his lips. “You’ll want me to take my time when we play.” Her brooding silence is answer enough. “Right now, I’d like to see the moon.”

“But you will, later.” Another command, tempered only by her preference. “Won’t you?” she adds as an afterthought, batting her eyes as her grip tightens on his arm. _Still trying to win favor with niceties, I see._ She enjoyed that little trick in their courting days, trying to consummate their marriage before the bonding ceremony.

“I would never deny you anything in my power.” Bowing differentially, he motions to the stairs. “Now, will you accompany me?”

“Of course, my darling. Always.”

* * *

When last he bothered to abandon his work, the world was wrapped in summer’s halcyon haze. Now, autumn paints the landscape in vibrant strokes.

_Outside_ holds little pleasure for him, beyond the fleeting curiosities that favor others of his kind. His refined senses can easily be overwhelmed by the filth of a dying world, one that holds a temporary place in the Grand Scheme. Besides, when compared to the Nine Circles and their varying climates, the result is rather… lacking.

But Hell comes with its own set of limitations; while demons are varied, their architecture cannot be. A committee enforces the heavy building constraints, even creating a set of rules for interior design that allows no deviation. Of course, any demon who finds fault with conformity is more than welcome to roam the Earth, conquer a land and build as they see fit upon it—which is exactly what he did.

Rosalind built up, creating a stone keep from her imagination and adding or taking towers as she sees fit. He, on the other hand, built deep into the earth, tapping into groundwater for his precious cistern laboratory, expanding beneath the mound on which their estate was built until there is just as much beneath the earth as there is above.

The land surrounding their _château_ was picked for its remote situation, not physical beauty—although there is plenty to be had. Snow-capped peaks line the northern borders, glistening white against the endless starry heavens. A vast temperate forest stretches to the southern horizons, a sea of elegant brushstrokes. Deep vermilions, Paris greens, lead oxide—virulent poisons, beautiful in their deadly course.  

The moon hangs low over the leafy horizon, rising on her nightly path. With no clouds to hinder, it is truly a sight worth beholding. The Harvest’s saturated amber has faded to soft peach, soothing even to his sensitive gaze. He flatters himself to be talented with a scalpel, but even he could never hope to achieve the perfection that is the soft oblong slice along the farthest edge. A waxing gibbous, close to its peak; by week’s end it will be a full Hunter’s Moon.

Breathing deeply, autumn’s slow decay coats the back of his tongue: moldering forest floor, the stagnation of late summer rains, dying breaths from mostly-dormant plants. In a few short weeks it will lay bare under the moon, sleeping through the merciless grip of a dead winter. Yet the taste is not unpleasant, despite its macabre significance; it adds an earthy warmth to the night that is quite agreeable, especially after months of nitre and damp.  

The autumn chill is no danger to distraction; in his great coat and gloves he cannot feel more than the press of wind against their folds. There is only the silky rustle of his cravat, the soft shirrs of muslin against his skin beneath the dark waistcoat. The breeze lifts his hair, whispering as it passes through the terraced garden. The fresh air expands his chest, filling his lungs and clearing the cobwebs from his mind. Already he feels energized, healthier, more alert.

Adopting a brisk pace, he can suddenly feel knots at the base of his neck, beneath his shoulder blades, even in his lumbar. The result, no doubt, of being hunched over his work for so long. Rolling his shoulders, he prepares to expand, weaving a quick glamour into the fibers of his clothing so that they won’t rip mid-stretch. Normally the discomfort of stretching to his limits keeps him to a modest nine feet, but once he begins, it feels too good to stop. His vertebrae crack as they separate, the muscles in his shoulders tightening in a delicious pleasure-pain. With a final satisfying snap the tension eases, the knots worked out by the weight of his own limbs.

He reaches his tallest form with a contented sigh, reveling in the rare pleasure. It seems fitting, this beautiful night, to stretch his powers along with his body. It has been too long since he exerted himself in any way, leaving most of the footwork to servants in order to focus on experimentation. As always, the thought occurs that he must be more diligent about these breaks, that a mind cannot function in tedious surroundings but must be refreshed, stimulated.

Rosalind bobs merrily at his side, rising to accommodate his new height without letting go of his arm. Her battle gown was traded while he changed from his lab coat into appropriate walking clothes; her new gown is a more traditionally demonic ensemble, yards of black satin and lace. The long train drifts over the lane, brushing the greenery on either side of the narrow walk.

He can’t help but notice her choice in dress, far more reserved than her usual wardrobe. Extra fabric is built into the puffs of her sleeves; rather than going bare-breasted, she wears a corset. He can guess what lies under the voluminous skirts—hosiery, petticoats, a shift. It is an unusual sight, but not unfamiliar. It is _his_ favorite; she wears it only to tempt him, knowing how he takes pleasure in her feigned modesty. It has the intended effect, although there’s fun in stretching the game longer, pretending that he notices her as infrequently as he does the colored leaves and snowy peaks.

They are separated from the world in their little _jardin à la française_ , but they are not alone. Servants bustle around them, keeping a wide berth from the strolling couple as they hurry about their duties. Lower demons, the lot, but excellent at their jobs despite a weaker status. One hardly had to issue commands—the moment he’d abandoned his laboratory, a small army of cleaners had whisked past him on their way to the stairs. He doesn’t have to oversee their work to know that they will scrub the stains from his workspace, polish the stones and scrape the wax from the sconces. When he returns all will be ready, his tools in their proper places and not a sliver of glass to be found embedded in the grout.

“Newton?” Rosalind pauses, glancing over their shoulders to watch the eastern skyline. In the same moment a flicker of consciousness pulls him from his thoughts. He half-turns as well, hardly knowing what it is that he searches for until he sees it on the horizon. A tiny dot, growing steadily larger until it becomes a blotch, then a shape, then a silhouette. Unexpected company, but welcome all the same.

“It’s Eve.” He is able to pick out the facial features long before they’re visible to his wife. She flutters happily near his ear, pleased at the news, before rising into the air to greet her. Eve, their lone daughter—the product of two centuries, of countless fertility rites and desperate attempts to procreate. The fault was, in some ways, their own; the strength and magical power of their class meant that higher demons need not produce offspring.

Children are cause for celebration, naturally, but there is no real need for them in Hell. Higher demons live until they are killed, more or less; there are very few natural deaths. Children, therefore, are little more than a means to further one’s own agenda, be it politics or land expansion. Rosalind’s parents had secured a genteel title with her birth; his own had assured the Beldukes a prime Court position. And Eve… well, her given name was no false step on _their_ part.  

He waits patiently on the ground, watching with a habitually protective eye as she glides into her mother’s waiting arms. The two embrace tightly, their tails entwined and wings brushing in their effort to keep the other aloft. She takes after her mother, which is only natural; the Erotic Circle may be gentry, but they are still a lower caste. His highborn genes are recessive, showing up in mostly subtle ways: the curve of her cheek, the sharp angle of her eyes.

At a mere 230 years she is barely more than a child, her horns tiny peaks with no real shape. They remind him of Rosalind’s, in the long ago age of their youth. He would be pleased if they take the same shape as well, despite the… _setbacks_. There are others in her genes, brought from her mother’s family—antelope, ibex, stag, bison—but there’s an undeniably raw beauty and prestige in the ram’s powerful curl.

“Mama,” she laughs, allowing Rosalind to press a lipstick-stained kiss to each cheek. The dark smears and rosy blush only add to her unnatural prettiness; already she has inherited the pheromones that give succubae their power. If they did affect him, he would never know: he dotes on her too much as it is. How can he help it? Being a high class demon does not affect his paternal instincts; perhaps she is only a means to an end, but he is still as fond of her as any father could be.

“Papa.” She descends, hovering to kiss his forehead innocently. He allows it, bending his head before taking her hand and chafing it in his own.

“Eve.” He draws her further from the sky, checking her over for any abnormalities, any changes from her last visit. She may very well have come while he was below ground, but he would be the last to know. Eve knows better than to bother him while working; only Rosalind is allowed in the laboratory without his explicit invitation. “We weren’t expecting a visit tonight,” he ventures, glancing at his wife for confirmation.

“No, you weren’t.” Eve lands at his feet, stretching her wings with a sharp _snap_ before folding them demurely. He looks down his nose at her, watching as she adjusts the straps of her dress before continuing. “I came to tell you something that happened at home, that’s all.”

Home. The notion brings the ghost of a smile to his face. Not ten full years in residence, and already she thinks of that miniscule manor as _home_. It shouldn’t surprise him; had she not built it on her own, on a piece of land she and Rosalind conquered together? It’s not uncommon for demons to be given a plot of territory to govern as a rite of passage when they come of age. It’s good practice for the day they’ll own territory, a way to be independent while still beneath the safe umbrella of their parents’ influence.

“Is everything alright?” Rosalind rests her arms on his head, pillowing her chin in one palm. “Those pesky ghouls haven’t tried to push the border?” A flicker of unease stirs behind his breastbone at the thought, and its implications. It’s far easier to let Rosalind handle the warfare, but the eastern border is a hotbed of political unease. It wouldn’t be wise to declare war on them without proper protocol, but if the ghouls have gotten bold….

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Shame,” Rosalind sighs. “I’d like to skewer that smarmy bastard Price on a pike.” Her tail snaps behind him in agitation.

“All things in due time,” he murmurs, reaching up absently to comfort her. Despite her heated words, the skin of her shoulder is smooth and cool against his palm. Eve eyes them keenly, her own tail twitching as she waits permission to continue. He has noticed her watching more and more lately, observing the quiet regard between her mother and himself. She is lonely, impatient for her own pair-bond. The next debutant ball will not be for a few decades at least; the better for him to come to terms with the fact that she’s old enough to ponder such matters.

_Patience, my dear._

“Come, Eve.” He motions for her to speak, seeing how she nearly bursts with anticipation and excitement. She has inherited Rosalind’s emotions as well as her beauty; any number of things could have spurred this enthusiasm. “Don’t leave us in suspense. What’s happened?”

“Yes, tell us,” Rosalind prompts.

“I’ve found a demon, Papa. A beast demon,” she adds. “In the forest. I saw it yesterday evening.” _That’s it?_ He barely refrains from blurting out the exclamation, tightening his jaw until it hurts. A remark like that would cut her to the bone, especially when she looks as she does now, her eyes sparkling with the exhilaration of her news. Rosalind, while not as direct, is equally as unimpressed.  

“Darling, there are beast demons under every rock,” she drawls, tracing patterns on his scalp with one nail. “Just _one_ hardly worth speaking of. Now, if it were a pack….”

“No, Mama,” she insists. “This isn’t an ordinary one; I’ve never seen another like it before.” This catches his attention; Eve is sheltered, yes, but not foolish. She knows enough of her race to not be taken aback by a paltry beast class. He leans forward, listening intently as she explains.

“It’s a wolf,” she clarifies, her hands gesturing a formless shape in the air between them. “A wolf demon made entirely of shadow, with six glowing eyes.” She rises suddenly into the air, spiraling until she floats a few meters above his head. “When I first saw it, it was this tall,” she states with complete confidence. It nearly touched the forest canopy. And then it shrunk to… to about here.” She lowers herself to just above eye level, chewing her lip as she gages the distance between her feet and the lane. “This size, or a little larger.”

“An upper level beast class, then.” He shrugs, nearly upsetting Rosalind’s perch on his skull. It makes sense; an upper level beast wouldn’t need the protection of a pack. “I’ve heard stories of upper level beasts that control entire biomes. The forest must be its territory. Did you do battle with it?”

“Oh, _no_ ,” she breathes. There’s a pulse in her voice, a soft light shining in her eyes that puts him on his guard. She seems _enamored_ with it, as though it were something worth her interest. Was her life truly so dull, that she found amusement in a weaker demon with territory bordering her own? Perhaps they should take her to Hell for a season, if only for the variety of company.

“Why were you in the forest at all, if not seeking to expand your territory?” Rosalind’s question is prestigious, but with good reason. It’s her duty to teach their daughter the art of war, to show her how to grab up and keep the choicest land, the best resources.   

“My food went there last night; I was chasing after it.” An appalling statement, in a tone of complete unrepentance. Only children let their food escape, or weaker demons trying to bite off more than their share. Eve is a succubus—she eats the souls of those that dare to summon demons, to bargain with them for momentary pleasures. It’s her given right, an even exchange for being bound to the summons. And yet, to allow a _human_ to escape? He bristles at the thought.

“A Belduke does not toy with meals.” He’s unable to help himself, his mind tumbling over thoughts of what his peers would say if they knew. “We’ve told you time and again about playing with your food.”

“I wasn’t,” she contradicts. A bold move on her part, but he lets it slip without comment. “I only had my back turned for a minute. I don’t know how he escaped. But that’s not the point; I didn’t get to eat him anyway. The demon did.”

“Then you ought to have done the same to it. You might have at least absorbed its power.” There’s no doubt in his mind that she would have won a scuffle with a beast demon, even an upper level one. “That would have been the end of it.”

“Well, I thought to,” she agrees, brows furrowing at his insistence. “But it was just—what I mean is—it was so _interesting_ , Papa.” Her expression glows. “I was too startled to fight, anyway. It did something with its power; I felt it deep down, in here.” She puts a hand to her stomach, fingers spread as if trying to contain the memory. “Like an ember.”

“Hm.” He feels Rosalind shift above him, silent. He would like to believe that she was bored with this kind of talk, or at least shared his opinion that it was something too trivial to be noted. But he knows her too well to confuse silence with apathy. She’s _thinking_ … but of what? He’d like nothing more than to ask, but the effort would be wasted. She won’t offer an opinion until Eve is out of earshot.

“Say no more.” He sinks into his great coat, arms crossed as a plan forms in the back of his mind. There’s an opportunity here, one too great to pass up. “I’ll send out a party to take care of this. I’ve yet to experiment on a beast class, and—”

“No, don’t.” Pouting, she rises to block his view of the shifting forest. “Please don’t do that, Papa,” she repeats, clasping her hands. Were it not for the clearly demonic features, she might be angelic. “I want it, I’ve already decided. It’s going to be my pet.” _A pet?_ Before he can answer, Rosalind interrupts.

“Oh, darling.” She tuts, reaching out to smooth the hair behind their daughter’s horns. “Beast demons don’t make good pets. They’re too wild; they stop being fun if you cage them. It’ll be dead before the month is up.”

“I don’t want it in a cage.” Her face smooths into a soft, dreamy look. “I’m going to keep it in the forest, where it can go around in its natural habitat.” Now she sounds like him, talking of humans in their settlements. “I’ll make it a collar with a bell and my name. I’ll feed it and play with it, and when it loves me I’ll brush out its fur until it shines darker than obsidian. _Then_ it can come to live in the garden as my guard dog.”

“More likely it will try to eat you, and then you’ll have to put it down. That’ll end the whole affair,” he points out wearily. “The last thing I need is some whelp threatening the village, either. Burnem or Bangham or… whatever the name is.”

“Barnham,” Rosalind offers helpfully.

“Yes, yes. The point is: if people start going missing, the whole bloody village will be calling for rites and sacrifices, heaven knows what else.” He can see it now—priests, talismans, sanctifying ceremonies and exorcisms. A host of general upset is bad enough on the surface level alone, not to mention the laughter he’d be forced to endure back home. “I won’t stand for unrest in Belduke territory.”

“I doubt it leaves the forest.” She tugs on a curl, tilting her head in thought. “After all, I didn’t know it was there until yesterday, and that’s only because I was trespassing. Besides, the humans aren’t making any kind of fuss. They don’t seem to be afraid until they have to pass the tree line. I’ve noticed they don’t enter the forest at night.”

“With good reason, obviously.” He frowns. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain why you shouldn’t cross the borders without planning a conquest.” For someone who’s made a gross breach of etiquette, she’s entirely too nonchalant. Had it been upper class territory— _At the very least, an apology would suffice. What a headache that might have been…._ “Since you started this, I’m going to insist that you take care of it.”

“Papa—”

“You _will_ take care of it,” he repeats, forcing the comment into a command. It’s not often he feels pressured into pulling rank; she is his daughter, and reaps the full benefit of his favor. Indeed, there is a special esteem he holds for her, one that stays his hand whenever she toes the thin line between playfulness and impudence. Could this, too, be love?

It matters not: he is her father, but he is also the lord. Her territory falls under his hand; anything that goes wrong will be his responsibility. He cannot take chances, not now. Hell’s current political atmosphere, their secret plans, the slow nature of his work…. Anything that will buy time—including false compliance—is only to be endured. He must be firm, if for nothing more than to ensure her safety.

“I will, if it ever becomes a problem. Don’t worry,” she sighs, seeing his frown darken. “You won’t hear of it again, unless it’s from me.” Such brash self-confidence from one so young! Anxiety flutters in his stomach; overconfidence is dangerous. Where is her natural discretion? She is strong, no doubt, there are many far stronger. _She must learn to check these notions before she’s killed._

“If you do manage to keep it as a pet,” Rosalind adds, “you’d do well to find the limits of its territory. That way you’ll know how far to expand once you’ve gained its trust.”

“Yes, I will.” The very picture of a dutiful daughter, yet he knows better than to forget the matter entirely. The knowledge of this lupine demon is filed to the back of his mind, a thought floating in a sea of other fragments, ready to be fished out and studied later. He could always send out a research party, servants he can stand to lose if the demon discovers them.

However, this is Eve’s governing territory. Even with her overconfidence, it won’t do to micromanage. How can she learn from her mistakes if he doesn’t allow her to take responsibility? And besides, it’s only a beast demon.

What’s the worst that can happen?  

* * *

He often spends so long in his lab that, upon remerging, he is greeted with a long list of duties. It’s always a welcome relief when there is no business to attend to, and the night is his own. On those nights the most pressing concern is the tail circling his wrist, its lovely owner watching with the universe trapped behind her eyes, begging to be freed. He would follow her anywhere, to the ends of the earth if he must, but she only leads him as far as their bedchamber.

It’s these nights that his focus is shifted, and he can only think of the immediate future as he follows her down the candlelit great hall. He brims with anticipation not just for the act— satisfying as it is—but for the aftermath as well. It’s just as crucial that they lie together in the darkness, hearts in perfect synchrony as they speak of unimportant things.

The bedchamber is the darkest room in the house, save his laboratory. Furnished to suit both their tastes, the air is thick with unearthly warmth that only imported hellfire can provide. The walnut boiserie appears black in the lowlight, its gold-etched surface decorated with tapestries from Arabia and the Far East. The low burning sconces illuminate some of his favorite paintings—Anguissola, Godward, Géricault—all commissioned while the artists were still in their prime. The bedcurtains are Venetian, the ottoman Parisian; the only demonic furniture is the mantel, built strong enough to withstand the hellfire banked in its grate.

She glances coyly over her shoulder as they enter the room, tail sliding from his wrist as he closes the door. Here, they can be truly alone; even the boldest servants know better than to interrupt. He breathes slowly, savoring the moment as it lingers between them.

She is strikingly beautiful in anything she wears, but these gowns are the ones that affect him the most: polonaise puffs, lace fichus, black buckled shoes with a hint of white stocking. To see her lithe form layered beneath yards of richly embroidered cloth… it’s a startling reversal for one normally bare to the world. He may be perverse for finding something as innocuous as cloth arousing, but it stirs his blood nevertheless. The knowledge lies in the fact that this is for him; she dresses this way knowing that he takes his pleasure from the undressing.

His fingers span her hips easily, leather gloves biting into the soft skirts beneath her corset. She seems so tiny; even in his smallest form he has to bend if he wants to kiss her. How can such a grandiose personality bear to be confined this way? He can’t help but marvel at it, pressing his lips to the soft hair on her crown.  

“Behold, thou art fair.” Her hair tickles his jaw as he recites the old song. “Thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks.” Derision flavors every word, a mocking smile twisting his lips. They can speak the psalms and verses as well as any other; the irony lies in its twisted meaning, the lies woven into their structure. Where, then, lies the purity? How can sex be a sacrament, if Hell’s denizens also partake in its pleasures?

“Don’t tease.” Her hands cover his on her waist, fingers lacing into the gaps between his. Their reflections are stacked in the boudoir mirror, pale busts in a sea of shadow. Their combined gloves melt into the silken skirts, and it’s impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. _As it should be._

“I don’t,” he replies, flexing his fingers against her stomach. “You are all grace tonight.”

“It’s about time you noticed.” He can’t help but chuckle at the insinuation. It’s all a game between them, every word an elaborate ruse. There is a clear beginning—that overcrowded ballroom—but there was never, and will never be, an end. Their dance is a slow one, verbal cues taking the place of _tempo rubato_.

“Do not mistake my patience for indifference.” He presses another kiss to the inside of her wrist, pausing only to relish the heat surging in her pulse. His throat is painfully dry, every fibre of his being craving a taste of what lies beneath her fragile skin. It is a joyous torture to deny himself—and a shared one, for in doing so he denies them both. “Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee.”

“Flatterer.” A spitfire still, even as her heart quickens. “You’re trying to seduce me.”

“I’m no fool.” His own voice is tranquil, feigning patience as he draws her close, unsatisfied until the base of her wings rest against his torso. She is warm against his stomach; he imagines the same warmth kindling under his touch as he slowly traces her stays. “I wouldn’t dare attempt seduction against a master of the art.” Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“Shame.” Her breath hitches when he reaches the lifted rise of her bust. “I would have thought—” Exactly _what_ she would have thought is lost when he yanks the fichu from her neck in one crisp movement, exposing the angle of her clavicle to the firelight. A haughty surge of triumph fills him from the boots up. It isn’t often that he can render her speechless. Silent himself, he traces first one side and then the other, following the dip down to the folds of her chemise.

“…Gloves,” she murmurs, already arching to meet his fingers. “I want—” Her voice breaks in a gasp, the sound sizzling through his veins.

“Then remove them.” No further encouragement is needed; she takes his imperative as the permission it is, stripping the thick leather from his hands. Joints, palms, knuckles are all kissed in their turn, her teeth nipping at the pad of one thumb. He lets her explore, familiarizing herself once again with the hands she loves to praise.  

There’s no need for pesky handmaids squinting in the faint candlelight. He can undress her without lifting a finger, his power slipping into her bodice as easily as a hand into water. Straight pins give up their tension with a metallic _ping_ , the stomacher falling aside to expose the front of her corset. It’s her turn to laugh now, the sound bright and bubbly as she helps him to slide the bodice over her wings. It crumples at their feet, the matching gown skirt and corded petticoats following in quick succession.

She steps out of her shoes, kicking them to the side before turning to face him. His mouth fairly waters as he stares, dazed and enthralled by the woman before him. The translucent shift barely covers her shoulders, cinched into soft folds by the confining shape of her corset. The corset itself is dark blue, its geometric floral pattern broken only by the crisscrossing laces that hold it tightly against her spine. Matching ribbons hold her stockings, which are blinding in their flawless white purity.  

His first instinct is also his most primal one: an urge to throw caution to the wind, to feast now and repent later. He will gladly buy her ten, twenty, a hundred chemises for the privilege of ruining this one beyond repair. The only thing to stay his hand is the thought that _she_ is no passing fancy. It would be an injustice to treat her as no more than a rough fuck, like some barbaric, feral beast. There’s plenty of that already from the dregs of humanity that dare summon her to their bedsides. She deserves more—to be unwrapped, slowly savored, relished.

Devoured.   

“Newton.” Her fingertips press against his cheeks, their touch softer than voile. She watches him keenly, wide-eyed. “Stay, darling. Don’t leave me.” It’s not physical absence that worries her. He can lose time in the maze of his thoughts, forgetting himself as he chases some abstract back to its source. Often he loses days this way, leaving her alone even as he rests beside her in their bed.

“I won’t.”  He meets her halfway for a kiss, chaste in its simplicity.

“Unlace me?” Nodding, he reaches behind her in a pseudo-embrace, carefully unravelling the knot of her corset strings. Working methodically, he slowly draws the laces through the eyelets one side at a time, watching them lengthen as the boned fabric loosens. She winds her arms around his torso, her glowing cheeks buried in the cool muslin of his shirt. Her breath is warm through the fabric, chest expanding in relief once he releases her from the bonds.

The corset joins the bulk of her gown on the ground, but something stops him from lifting her chemise. He would have to untangle her arms to disrobe her, something he’s not willing to do. It’s been months since he’s felt her this close, with only a few scant layers separating their skin. Closing his eyes, he gives himself over to the sensation of touch.

His fingers map their way down her spine, counting vertebrae down to the base of her hips. Her wings draw their own attention, exploring the transition from supple flesh to paper-thin leather. They seem flimsy, easily torn… tissue paper wings. But these same wings keep her aloft every day; he’s seen them send demons twice her size flying through the air with no more than a snap of scarlet.

The neat coil of her hair is harder to understand, but he manages to locate the main hairpin with only a little difficulty. Her bun falls in a tangle over her shoulders, smaller hairpins clinging in vain to the twists. He combs it out, separating the delicate curls and fanning them over her shoulder blades. To his shock she burrows deeper into his chest, squeezing his thin frame with a surprising force. He holds her quietly, soaking up her heat in the already unnatural warmth of the room. They are silent, but there’s no need for words. This touching is enough.

Emotion wells in his chest, flooding every facet of his being until he practically trembles with unvoiced passion. Is _this_ love, then? It’s certainly not lust; he would be able to understand that far better. Base desire is simply that—base. This is far deeper than that, a wellspring of sentiment pouring in a steady rush. It’s impossible that those power-drunk fools who call her to claim their souls could ever feel a fraction of what he does…. No, it’s not lust.   

When she emerges her face is red, either from emotion or the heat trapped in his clothing. Her weight presses against him, hands fumbling for his belt as she asks permission with sparkling eyes. Whatever she sees there—in his gaze, in his expression—burns through the last of her patience. His waistcoat joins her bodice on the floor, cuffs ripped open by the near-frantic force of her motions. She’s impeded only by his height, the muslin trapped against his neck in her effort to peel it away.

He removes it for her, baring himself at her discretion. The hellfire is undeniably soothing, a taste of home that pales only to the open-mouthed kisses she presses to his sternum. His heart finally begins to pound, roused into action by her sharp teeth and insistence.

“My dear, yo— _augh!_ ” Without warning she leaps at him, stockinged feet scrabbling at his boots while a playful smile curls her painted lips. Stumbling, he tries first to steady her, than himself: it’s too late. Her full weight is too much for his slim frame to handle, and he finds himself falling. Panicking, he frantically searches for a handhold and finds none.

Self-preservation kicks in, the bedsheets breaking from the mattress to enfold them in a sea of fabric. In the confusion his powers flip the two of them backwards onto the foot of the bed, where they bounce in a clumsy heap. Rosalind giggles at her own devilishness, the sound doubling into full laughter at the sight of his face. Heat floods his cheeks, adrenaline and embarrassment sending his heart into overdrive.

“Damn it!” Shaken, he pulls himself up; the room wobbles on its foundations, tilting as his dizziness abates. “You can’t be _doing_ that!” he wheezes, flushing further as she cackles unashamedly. “I’m not a… a tree!”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She pounces again, pinning him to the bed as her tail flicks back and forth, catlike. Cupping his jaw in both hands, she pulls him up for a round of searing kisses that leaves him breathless.

“Patience,” he manages, wincing when her nails bite into the sensitive skin beneath his chin.

“I’ve been patient for months.” Her eyes narrow. “I’ve been patient all night. I’m through biding my time.”

“ _Rosalind_.” She pauses long enough for him to sit up, drawing his knees until she kneels between them. Her thin brows meet in a sullen pout, tail snapping in annoyance. He feels over the bed with his hands, not daring to break eye contact as he slides to recline against the mountain of cushions stacked one atop another against the ornate headboard.

Only when he is situated comfortably against the cushions does he nod for her to join him. She crawls up the bed, grinning wickedly as she climbs over him, straddling his hips. The shift bunches at her waist, exposing the broad, satiny bands of ribbon holding up her stockings. He runs his hand over one thigh, testing its give before tugging the bow apart in one slow motion. The ribbon slides to the coverlet, leaving him free to roll the stocking down her leg.

“Newton—”

“Shh.” He repeats the process on the other leg, lightly tracing her calf from ankle to the crease of her knee. The shift is the last thing to go, carefully rolled over her head to keep the sheer fabric from ripping on her horns. Now she is bare, perched daintily on his hips. It still amazes him that he was able to procure such a woman—riches can buy many things, but not someone who is truly his equal in every way. To not only court her but to have and her _keep_ her.

Idly he brushes a stray curl from her horns, running his hand along it’s polished length before following gravity’s natural trail. His nails brush over he cheek, tickling her ear before caressing her neck, down the valley between her breasts, over her diaphragm and stopping, finally, over the soft curve of her stomach. She shivers, blushing as she lifts from his lap to meet his lips.

Their kisses are less insistent now, tentative and thoughtful. She no longer wishes to rouse passion, only feeling. He barely registers her hands loosening his hair tie, combing through the strands. His hands sweep over her curves, counting ribs before drawing her closer. No matter how often he tries to ready himself, nothing can ever prepare him for the touch of her bare flesh against his own.

“Tell me: how many men do you touch this way?” She sneers against his mouth, nipping his lower lip sharply in tacit reprimand.

“Boys, you mean.” She purrs, eyes darkened with lust. “Fumbling boys, the lot… and I don’t touch—I _hunt_.” Her wings flare over them, stretching before folding against her sides. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” she adds blithely. “You’re _much_ tastier.”   

“Then eat.” He kneads the back of her thighs with his fingers, watching her fidget on his lap. “Don’t make me scold you for playing with your food.”

“But that’s the best part,” she refutes, her tiny fingers splaying over his chest. “Besides, you should go first tonight.”

“I—What?”

“I mean it. Eat.” She shakes back her hair, exposing her throat before staring down at him expectantly. His mouth is dry, painfully so, but still he shakes his head.

“I’ll wait,” he volunteers. “You’ve been patient, my darling. You’re welcome to the first taste.”

“ _No_.” Her persistence surprises him. Normally she wouldn’t hesitate to take him up on the offer. “You’re hungry, Newton, and we both know it. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“I… I ate earlier….” He knows that’s not what she means. One human soul is barely enough to whet his appetite, much less give him the energy he needs in order for her to take what she needs. The smile slips from her face, replaced by an obstinance he’s seen before. There’s no room to argue here.

“If I tried to feed now, I’d only put you in danger.”  

“I’m not so weak.”

“ _Fine_ … then do it for me,” she insists. “So that I might feed with a happy conscious. Besides…” She drops her voice to a husky whisper. “I always mean what I say. You promised to bite me later. I’m still waiting, aren’t I?” As in many things, she’s right. He did vow that he would bite her later, and she’ll expect him to make good on it before ‘late’ becomes ‘early’.

Still, he doesn’t go for her neck immediately. He’s not one to rush headlong into anything without preparation. There’s a _procedure_ to feeding from her, and every step has its importance. Her horns have to be angled away from his face—the last thing he wants is to be accidentally gored—but more importantly, he must make sure that blood flow isn’t constricted in an awkwardly bent limb.

He sits up straight, looming over her properly as he angles her farther down his lap. She stretches her legs at his instruction, wrapping one tightly around his waist while the other burrows beneath the cushions behind him. She leans back, melting into his waiting hands with a serene expression, her arms slung haphazardly around his neck. It’s an intimate, vulnerable position; she has to trust him completely, opening herself up to potential attack.

Stalling, he kisses her gently before angling her head to the proper degree. His kisses are those of a married man, passionate but unhurried. They have time, despite her haste. Her giggles fade into moans, both hands tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. Their noses brush as he breaks away, panting softly as he presses his forehead to hers. The affection in her gaze is a feast in itself, nourishment for his soul rather than his body.

The feelings well inside of him again, pressure building in his chest until he feels as though he might burst at the seams. He kisses her again and again, infrequent pecks across her check and down her jaw until at last he reaches the treasure that is her neck. There he falters, feeling her body tense involuntarily.

He swallows, trembling as his canines grow sharper. This is the part he despises; no matter how delicious the outcome, it’s almost not worth the inevitable. He hates causing her pain of any sort, despite her assurance that it feels far better than he could ever imagine. An exquisite bliss, she claims, one that only he can provide; if it weren’t for that flash of ecstasy, he wouldn’t feed from her at all.

He presses his lips to her jugular, marking his place in a false kiss. She relaxes against him, letting out an impatient little groan when he retreats to survey his choice. Her leg tightens around his waist, the other shifting restlessly somewhere behind him. Her tail twitches on the coverlet, betraying her growing excitement.

He kisses her again, this time at the join of her shoulder and neck, once more where it meets the base of her long ears. His resolve is slowly unravelling, threads pulling taunt one by one as he braces himself. Breathing heavily, he leans in and whispers a single caveat:  

“Forgive me.”

His hand grips the hair at the base of her skull, yanking her back as his teeth sink into her neck. She stiffens with shock, choking out a harsh gasp that sputters, ultimately, into a wail. Nails dig into the meat of his shoulders, her tail cutting into the skin of his upper arm. He feels all this secondhand, barely registering her reaction as his body gives wholly into the thirst he’s denied himself all night.

_Divine_ : what other word could describe the rich taste, the savory brine, the sharp, smoky delicacy that is a demon’s life force? A delicious rush better than the finest liquor, than the taste of success, than his own release. The blood truly is the life, and hers—oh, _hers_ is the best in all of Creation. Tangy, zesty sweetness flowing over his tongue, clinging to his mouth… it’s rapturous.

He can’t stop, it’s impossible to even think of breaking away from this exhilaration. Warmth spreads through his limbs, invigorating, boundless energy pulsing in his veins. His senses have never been sharper, his mind is clear and for once he doesn’t have to _think_ , only feel the bliss she gives so freely to him. Somewhere above him she whimpers in either pleasure or pain; the sound tickles his lips. From the way she clings so desperately to him, it can’t be all painful.

Her blood fills him to the brim and there’s more to spare, more energy to siphon. He can allow himself to be selfish, to overindulge, to take and take and _take_. He gorges on her, unable to tire of the banquet until her body grows cooler in his tight grip. A stirring of unease pulls him from his euphoria, a warning against taking too much. With a great effort he wrenches himself away, chest heaving as the world crashed down on him in startling clarity. Everything is almost too much: the banked fire is an inferno, her haggard breathing a typhoon.

_Rosalind_. He glances at the swooning woman still clutched in his arms. As always, his fears were unfounded; he hasn’t drained her of anything essential. The deep wound on her neck is already closing, steadily knitting itself back together. Within five minutes, there won’t even be a bruise to show where he fed. Her lashes flutter, lips parted with shallow breaths. She’s only fainted. This isn’t new; it’s a reaction to the blood loss, one they’ve experienced many times before. As he watches over her, emotions mix together in his mind: regret, and fondness, and something far stronger than either of them.

“Rosalind,” he murmurs, smoothing the matted hair from her forehead. The leftover blood is wiped on the stained coverlet, a problem only for the laundry staff. “Darling, my beautiful… beloved—” _Beloved._ It seems to come from someone else, spoken in his voice but not of his own volition.

“Mm.” She stirs before he can begin to contemplate the term, or its significance. Perhaps it is for the best; if he thinks too hard while his mind is this clear, he might grow anxious. Sated and weary, he collapses against the cushions with a sigh, holding her against his chest. When she finally rises, peering at him sleepily, the wound is healed and vanished. “Full?” she asks, knowing the answer already.

“Very.” He strokes her hair listlessly, gazing up at the mural-laden canopy.

“Good.” With a groan she lifts herself, bracing her hands on his chest. His eyes drift closed, half-dozing as she gathers what’s left of her energy to remove his boots and breeches. “Don’t sleep.”

“I don’t plan to.” She draws herself up his body, kissing up his torso before sweetly pecking each cheek. “Your turn.”

“I’m ready.”

What follows could be called _lovemaking_ , if he were to put a name to it. The art of lovemaking, the words of deepest affection that pour, unbidden, from them both…. He would argue that, by his very nature, love is beyond his grasp. Yet tonight, while his mind is clear and he is free—

He can dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm allowed to write one (1) AU where Newton is relatively happy: didn't lose his wife, daughter visits him, is a powerful demon lord with secret plans for world domination... y'know, the same stuff that would make anyone happy. His demon form is based off concept of "Slenderman but Mad Scientist". I pulled a lot from my Hellsing days, since Doc is basically a mad scientist too. His powers are telekinesis based, as well as hypersensitivity (which is a double-edged sword). He can get the energy he needs to survive from draining life essence; blood is the most accessible source, so he's a bit vampiric. 
> 
> Rosalind is Tryph's OC for Eve's mom!   
> You can see the Demön AU Version here: https://twitter.com/eldwitch/status/1071126357701099520  
> She's really neat and I love her. I only want the best for her, but... regretti spaghetti.


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